Saving Boromir
by Amie Thackeray
Summary: The fellowship arrives on the shores of the River Anduin, but Boromir's mind is elsewhere: if he dies on this quest, he will die a man never loved by a woman, but this fate may be about to change...
1. Chapter 1

When their fine elvish boats drew up on the pebbly shore of the river Anduin, Boromir was the first to set foot on the west bank, followed swiftly by Legolas, Aragorn, Gimli and the four hobbits: Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin.

"We will make camp here for tonight; at sunrise, we move out."

"No, Aragorn, we cannot stay here; I feel a darkness falling around us, ever thicker as long as we remain in this place!" Legolas was deadly serious in his concern, and Aragorn's choice of camp was unsettling to him.

Boromir came up behind the two of them to have his say:

"The little ones are tired, let them rest!"

"Boromir is right, Legolas." Aragorn nodded towards the huddle of hobbits, almost sleeping where they stood, "they cannot travel further today."

"Good," Boromir raised his chin victoriously, "I will help them set up camp."

Later that night, as the fellowship sat wearily around a makeshift fire, an absence was noticed in their ranks.

"Where is Boromir?" Frodo piped up, "he is not here."

Sam spoke next, "Mr Frodo's right, Mr Boromir isn't with us."

"Ach," Gimli grunted, "let the man have some peace! This journey is harder for him than he'd lead most of us to believe."

"The dwarf's right, for once." Legolas gave Gimli a sly smile, and the whole company began to laugh and Boromir was left to whatever peace solitude gave him.

Undisturbed, Boromir wandered the woods surrounding the camp. Dotted around him were the tattered remains of long gone stone buildings; what purpose they once served was indiscernible, but the somewhat crumbled remains of stairs and moss mottled pathways made navigating the woodland far easier for a man used to the stone streets and unforgiving walls of Gondor.

It was while remembering those very structures that Boromir's thoughts turned to his brother. It seemed like an age since he had last seen Faramir, perhaps the war had passed him and his city by, perhaps Faramir – son of Gondor – had found a wife and lived now happy with his young family. While unlikely, this picture still gave Boromir a degree of comfort... and pain.

Pain, because Boromir himself had never loved in that way. He loved his family; his kingdom, but he had never loved a woman. Never had he felt the soft embrace, or the hard kiss of a lover, such as great songs were sung of.

Losing his light, Boromir began to turn back to camp; they'd be starting to wonder where he'd been, and the night was growing old. But, by the chance of his torch flame flickering in the cooling night breeze, a strange, shadowed shape in the leaves to his right caught his eye.

"Tisn't a rock," he thought, as he reached out to the bundle...

"Boromir!" Legolas called.

"Boromir! Where are you? It's late!" Aragorn too was out looking for him.

"Great, pretty boy and the ranger king." Boromir chuckled to himself, before calling back. "Over here, come! I have found something!"

The sound of footsteps began to quickly approach the son of Gondor and the mysterious bundle of cloth on the ground before him.

"What is it, friend?" Aragorn asked in haste.

"I do not know; I am yet to uncover it."

Incidentally, as the three of them were about to do just that, the bundle... it moved, then let out a strained groan.

Boromir, Aragorn and Legolas were all instantly poised to bear the brunt of an attack. Boromir – who stood nearest the bundle – could hardly believe his eyes when the cloak covering the bundle fell aside to reveal the maker of the groan...

"A... a woman..." Boromir's words stumbled clumsily out of his hanging jaw, for she was beautiful: rugged, but stunning.

Her eyes snapped open, immediately fixed on the three travellers, now looming over her, blocking the moonlight. She sprang to her feet and drew her bow, fully and horizontally, so the tip of her arrow was resting atop Boromir's Adam's apple.

Her expression was hard as marble and a defensive rage flamed in her eyes amid the bruising along her high cheekbones. Beneath her worn, leather waistcoat, her shirt was torn and stained with blood and dirt. She wore trousers, as a man would; it's clear that they were once the same leather as her waistcoat (which was also the material her boots and archer's gloves her crafted from) but now they were practically patchwork. Boromir could see why: there was a large slit down her left thigh, through which he caught a glimpse of her creamy skin, badly wounded by the same cut that had torn through her armour.

"Who are you all?" Her words were short and clear; she was not to be messed with.

She flicked her oatmeal blonde hair out of her eyes and it fell behind her ear, to reveal a slight point on them. It was slight, but her ears were pointed...

"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

"And I am Legolas, son of King Thranduil, of The Woodland Realm."

The woman's gaze lingered on Legolas, eying him with a sort of deep rooted contempt.

"And you?" She raised her bow, lifting Boromir's chin slightly as she addressed him.

"I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain of the White Tower." He swallowed nervously. "Please, calm down, lady elf..."  
"I am no elf!" She shouted, pulling her bowstring so taught that it started to cut into her slender fingers, as the anger in her eyes flared to hatred. "Drop your weapons."

Boromir lowered his sword.  
"All of you!"

Aragorn and Legolas – reluctantly – did the same.

"Beg pardon, but what is your name, and where do you hail from, miss?" Aragorn asked from over Boromir's broad shoulder.

"Your niceties are wasted here, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I am Amela, and you shall not know my lineage, for I did not ask for yours."

She lowered her bow, letting the arrow hang loose before – in one swift movement – replacing it in her quiver and expertly swinging her bow back into place on her back. Without paying any further attention to the three men, she turned, tied her dark grey cloak around her once more and gathered her belongings. Within moments, she was almost out of sight.

"Wait!"

Aragorn and Legolas stared at Boromir in astonishment; what was he doing?

"Boromir, have you lost your mind? How do we know we can trust her?" Trying to reason with him, Aragorn's words were hushed, but stern.

"We can't." Legolas scoffed under his breath.

"Don't get your ponytail in a twist, Legolas. The lady does not take kindly to elves; that does not mean we cannot trust her. We could benefit greatly from a companion with her skills."

Boromir had a great deal more to say on the subject. But, before he had a chance to fight the battle, he lost the war.

"I travel alone, captain of Gondor." Having returned as swiftly and quietly as a hawk gliding on the summer air, the woman – Amela – continued to drag the rug from beneath Boromir's feet, "and I am sure that I would find far less benefit from your party than your party would find in me. I do not wish to waste any more of the night..." As she turned to leave once again, Boromir found his winning strategy.

"You won't go far, not with that wound, lady traveller."

She paused. Her head turned toward her shoulder; her fingertips resting lightly on the slash in her creamy flesh. It stung. It stung with a searing pain; the orc blade had been jagged and coated in grime.

"We have supplies. We can give you food, warmth and care for your leg."

"I suppose you have a point, captain..." Sighing with defeat, she let the man of Gondor have his way, "this leg won't carry me much further, so I will stay. I will stay for now."

So the four of them made their way back to the fellowship's camp by the dwindling light of Boromir's torch; the sky was clear, making for a cold night. But, when they returned, there was nobody sat at the fire. Noticing that this was not what the others expected, Amela joined them in scanning the area for signs of any companions.

"There, by the river!" Called Aragorn from across the camp.

A short, stout dwarf and what looked like two children stood at the edge of the water,

"They're hobbits..." Seeing the confusion on her fair face, Boromir answered Amela's unasked question.

"Two hobbits, a dwarf, a ranger and a wood elf: you keep interesting company, son of Gondor." She smirked and – leaving Boromir to watch her walk away – followed Aragorn and Legolas to the shore of the River Anduin.

"Aragorn, Frodo and Sam have reached the Eastern shore, we must hurry!"

"No, Gimli..."

"You mean not to follow them?" Legolas interjected.

"Frodo's burden is not ours to carry; he must complete his quest alone."

Pippin, confused, couldn't help but point out: "but... Aragorn, Sam is with Frodo."

"Pippin, Sam couldn't be kept away from Frodo by all the armies of Mordor." Merry chuckled, and then the whole company joined in. Even Amela – who had no idea who Sam and Frodo were – smiled to herself at the thought of the loyal Samwise.

Then, out of the dark, their laughter was joined by a fast paced rumbling coming from through the trees.

"Legolas, what is that?" Trusting his elf friend's hearing more than his own, Aragorn needed confirmation of what he already feared.

"It's o-"

"Orcs." Answering before Legolas could, Amela knew the sound of an orc troop better than most and knew just how much damage they could do.

Before the group could grab anything other than their weapons, the first few of many orcs burst into the clearing.

"RUN!" Boromir bellowed the order at Merry and Pippin, before giving Amela the same look of protective authority.

"Scared of being shown up by a girl?" Amela teased, as she unsheathed her sword from the scabbard she wore at her hip and beheaded two charging orcs in one deadly pirouette.

Thus the battle began. Aragorn and Gimli headed upriver to cut off as many of the advancing orcs as they could. Legolas took the high ground atop the stone ruins surrounding the camp and Merry and Pippin were chased into the woods by a small group their foul enemy. Boromir and Amela were alone in the clearing with at least sixty orcs; they stood – not facing eachother – each mowing down another enemy with every swing of their sword. Metal clashed on metal; limbs and blood fell in all directions as the fight reached its height.

"How many more, do you think?" Boromir shouted over the sound of this sword breaking through orc armour.

"I'd say about twenty five, but there may be more to come."

Astounded by her swordsmanship, Boromir couldn't help but glance over at her when he got the chance. He'd always been taught to never let his mind stray from the battle, but he couldn't help himself; she was so... dangerous.

However, the next time he flicked his shoulder length hair to marvel at the mysterious woman, she was gone: totally out of sight.

"Damn that woman!" He cursed under his breath, he trusted her! Then she abandons him, mid battle. "Never trust a nomad, Boromir." Why didn't he follow his own advice?

"Help!" The cry came from the forest.

"The little ones!" Boromir gasped as he ran from the clearing to the hobbits' aid.

Holding onto eachother tightly, Merry and Pippin's expression of pure terror would have been greatly amusing, if not for the orc war hammer about to bear down on them. Sprinting towards the orc that towered above the helpless hobbits, Boromir raised his sword above his head, leaped into the air and – with all the might he could muster – plunged the blade into the hideous creature's chest. Merry and Pippin watched – speechless – as Boromir rose to his feet and slew orc after orc with his expertly wielded sword.

But, as those orcs died, another was very much living, and aiming an ebony arrow straight at Boromir! Flying through the air like a winged death sentence, the arrow spun and twisted as it approached its target.

But it didn't hit.

Just as the arrow had been about to pierce the captain of Gondor's heart, he had been knocked to the ground by an altogether unexpected ally.

"A-Amela?" The captain could barely speak, having had the air knocked out of him by the very blow that saved his life.

"Get up and fight, fool. And – unless you want the next arrow to fly straight through your chest – I suggest you cover me while I take out that bastard orc."

Their teamwork was impeccable; to see them, you'd think they'd been fighting together for years. Circling around his partner, Boromir ducked, parried, jabbed and slashed any enemy that came near her. Calmly, as if the bloody battle happening inches from her was miles away, she drew her bow, then an arrow; she lined up the shot...

It was the orc's turn to duck this time, but it moved too late, the razor point of the arrow had already cracked the creature's skull and driven through its brain.

When Amela was satisfied that one shot had done the job, she turned to see Boromir beheading the last of the entire orc troop.

"Good work, Captain. But, where are your hobbit friends?" She asked absentmindedly while she wiped the orc blood from her face.

"They left. They went to find the other two, I tried to stop them bu-"

"They'll be fine, Boromir." Aragorn had run in from his post upriver, with Gimli following comically behind.

"So, what now?" Legolas too had rejoined the party.

Aragorn paused – not wanting to rush into a decision that could cost them their lives. "Well... Boromir, do you still aim to return to Minas Tirith?"

"That I do, but not before my part in this quest is over."

"That may be sooner than you think..."

Casually pacing around the ruined camp, Amela didn't care enough about Boromir's plans to pay attention to his conversation with Aragorn – who seemed to her to be the closest the party had to a leader. So, she busied herself with menial tasks, such as cleaning her blade, counting her arrows and ensuring that if anyone were to pass through after they left, they'd see no trace of a previous camp.

"Better safe than sorry." She thought to herself as she kicked the last of the logs and ashes, from the fire, away from the clearing, before returning to the four men, still in discussion of their next move.

"Then it's settled," Aragorn concurred, "Boromir will return to Minas Tirith, and our new friend will accompany him."

"What?" Not sure she had heard right, Amela needed confirmation, "me? Go to Minas Tirith? With him? He can't even watch his own back, never mind mine!"

"I did a pretty damned good job back there, miss 'stand in the middle of a battle spending a lifetime on one shot'." Boromir jumped in to defend himself.

"I was making sure YOU didn't get killed, 'captain'! If I hadn't taken my time with that shot, it would've cost me at least three more arrows."

Turning to Aragorn, Boromir made his plea: "I cannot travel with this woman, Aragorn. Do you not hear her?"

Smirking as he spoke, Legolas said his piece: "It was you who invited her to join us, Boromir. I'm sure the two of you will make an excellent partnership."

Amela sighed; she was left with two choices. She could either give into peer pressure from a wood elf and travel with Boromir, or try and make it alone without care for her wound.

"I will go to Minas Tirith with..." she looked over at Boromir, "you".


	2. Chapter 2

So, this is the second chapter of Saving Boromir! Obviously I don't anything that's Tolkien's. Enjoy!

Clear and dark, the night felt empty to Amela; there were no clouds to block out the endless sky and the silence seemed hollow and thin. Lying on her back by the dwindling fire, she cradled the back of her head in her hands. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her companion striding through the trees towards their small camp.

"I brought some more firewood; it was getting cold." Boromir mumbled as he threw his armful of logs into the flickering flames.

"It was always cold; you were just starting to feel it," Amela teased, "if you really need to warm up, you can wear my cloak." She chuckled as she mockingly started to reach for her pack.

"Don't be ridiculous, woman," snorted Boromir, "I just... I just thought you might need a warmer fire."

Deciding to have a little more fun, Amela carried on taunting the prideful Gondorian.

"I'm sure I'd appreciate the sentiment, if it weren't just a cover up."

"Cover up for what?" He spluttered. Boromir was already starting to regret agreeing to travel with this woman; she was infuriating, "I was just concerned for you, although I see my good intentions were wasted."

"Well in that case, son of Gondor, you needn't worry about me. I've been taking care of myself, alone," she shot Boromir a rare glance, "for long enough to be able to last for a night, without some over confident noble bringing me extra firewood."

Boromir was lost for words; nobody had disrespected him like that before! Seeing the look of surprise on his face, Amela couldn't help but let out a laugh,

"You're far from Gondor, Captain; your station means nothing in these wilds." On that note, the mysterious traveller woman turned away from Boromir and fell into a smugly content sleep.

Unable to think of a suitable retort before she drifted off, Boromir simply pouted by the fire for a few minutes, before giving up and retiring to his own spot in the warm glow of the flames.

When morning broke on Middle Earth the next day, streaks of sunlight breaking through the tree canopy rudely awoke Boromir as he lay by the remains of last night's campfire. Scrunching up his strong face in protest, the captain of Gondor groaned as he fought the urge to fall back into his slumber. Suddenly, a kick to the arm shocked him into full consciousness.

"Ha, how dare the sun be so rude, as to wake the great Captain of The White Tower?" Amela taunted. Laughing as she tossed Boromir's bag – already fully packed – onto his chest, she waited for him to be ready.

"You shouldn't have packed for me; I like to know the pack I'm carrying." Boromir complained as he stood to his full height. Never having paid much attention to his appearance, Amela was somewhat startled by his grand stature; he was certainly over 6 feet tall; he was broad and muscular. His impressive structure was made all the more evident to her by how close the two of them now stood; she would have been seen as above average height – for sure – and more toned than the average woman. But, next the Boromir, she felt slender and light... and she didn't like it. Their gazes met for a second or so, each as stubborn and unyielding as the other. Boromir, only then, noticed the colour of her eyes: so strikingly blue and opalescent, but before he could marvel at them anymore, Amela turned her head slightly to avoid further eye contact.

Boromir sensed her discomfort, and quickly turned away, excusing himself – for actually caring – as he did so,

"You were stood to close to me while I was sleeping." The words tumbled clumsily out of his mouth as he walked a few paces away from her, running his hardened fingers from the roots of his hazel hair right to the tips, which fell just above his broad shoulders.

A slightly dense, awkward atmosphere started to wrap around the two travellers; it would have covered them for hours, if Amela hadn't had a question to pose to her handsome companion.

"What is our route to Minas Tirith? Do we follow the Anduin?" She enquired while once again dismantling their camp.

"No, the journey that way is too difficult. We'll travel West t-"

"But Minas Tirith is South East of here!"

"Let me finish," he commanded with a stern expression. "We'll travel west to avoid the mouths of the Entwash; head toward the Southern border of Eastfold..." He paused, letting Amela take a mental note of the intended path.

"Then eastward, crossing Mering Stream, through Anórien, to approach Minas Tirith from the West?" She guessed.

"... Yes," her knowledge of these lands was unsettling to Boromir; he had hoped to lead, "following the White Mountains, along the Great West Road."

And thus their journey truly began. Boromir walked a few steps behind Amela, admiring the way she so smoothly navigated the landscape. After a short while, they left the forest – that coloured the banks of the River Anduin – behind them, and emerged into wide, open grasslands...

"Rohan..." She whispered.

"Aye, nought but grass and rock as far as the eye can see." Concurred Boromir, as he came up to stand beside her.

They stood there for a few seconds, taking in the vast expanse of open country that lay before their feet. Gazing out at Rohan, Boromir couldn't help but begin to pine for his own homeland, full of rivers, mountains and rolling hills...

"Do you miss it?"

Amela's friendly question snapped Boromir out of his dream, he looked at her quizzically: unsure of what she had asked him.

"Gondor. Do you miss your home?" Turning to look at his face as she asked, she moved so that Boromir could see that her question was genuine.

"I do. Gondor is where I belong: the greatest realm of men."

"And home to the greatest of men." She remarked quietly as she turned to face forward again.

Boromir though, continued to look across at her; take in her physicality. Sleek and defined, her features did seem fairly elvish, but not so pointed as those he had met in Rivendell; her hair – cut only just longer than his own – was not elvish at all. Nor was she as fair in tone as the elves he had met; her skin – while certainly fair – was not as eerily clear as you would expect an elf's to be. No; she seemed more... human, than that. Having sensed his eyes on her, Amela turned to the Captain of The White Tower with raised eyebrows.

"Is something wrong?"

Boromir quickly searched for a way out of admitting what he was truly thinking,

"N-no, just that... we should be heading out; I don't want us to linger in one place too long while it is still light."

"Ah, of course; you're right, we should move." She began to walk again, towards the hazy outline of the White Mountains in the distance, "aren't you coming, Captain? I don't trust you walking all the way back there." She threw him a sly wink and then carried on her way.

Boromir hadn't wanted to walk to close to Amela (he felt he was unwelcome there) but now it seemed she was almost encouraging him...

So they walked, side by side, across the wide grasslands of Rohan. When the end of their journey's first day drew near, they found a suitably large rock jutting out of the dry grass and made camp in its shelter, safe from the biting wind coming down from the mountains, which they could now see a little more clearly. Sat alone by the newly stoked fire, Boromir's thoughts drifted from his home, to his journey from Rivendell, to finding Amela, to the battle in the clearing by the Anduin... right back to the moment before they began to cross Rohan. He remembered the way the chilling wind had whipped through her hair and rippled the stained fabric of her blouse. He remembered how the late morning sun had trickled down her face; the glow of the light on her skin...

"Her eyes..." He whispered. Unable to forget how the gleam in her jewel like irises had captured him, he lingered on that memory: him, her, how close they had been...

"You're a fool, Boromir." He scolded himself for thinking so deeply about her; he hardly knew this woman! Plus, what he did know drove him mad: "she's stubborn, proud, impulsive..." His rant trailed off into the night as he heard footsteps approaching the camp.

"Has my hearing gone awry, or did I just here the son of Denethor talking to his self?" Laughed Amela as she carried back the small kill she had been away hunting for them. Just as he was about to retaliate, something stopped him; he didn't know why, but the only thing his mind would focus on was that a lock of Amela's dark blonde hair had fallen down onto her face and now rested along her nose. She watched him stare at her in the dancing light of their fire, through the darkness of the night. Then, without entirely knowing what he was doing, he slowly stood and crossed the space between with his strong, confident strides, entering Amela's personal space so naturally... They were so close: their bodies almost touching. Boromir bowed his head slightly, and turned hers by gently guiding her chin with his hardened hands. Both of them could feel their breath mixing in the space between them as their eyes met under the starlight. They stayed like this for a short while – not touching, but tantalisingly close – before Boromir finally raised his hand to brush away the disobedient lock of hair and tuck it carefully behind her ear.

"It was covering your face," he explained in a deep, husky whisper, "and I didn't like that."

And then she punched him.

She punched him full in the face, and hard; he staggered backwards (almost into the fire) but managed to catch himself on the rock.

"What do you think you're doing?!" She demanded of him.

"I don't know... I just. The hair and..."

"And I don't know how your women in Gondor behave, but I am not a woman that will fall for your so-called 'charms', captain." Her words bit at him; they were so sharp.

"Oh you needn't worry," he barked back at her, "I don't think I'll ever put myself that close to you again." Gesturing at his bloody nose, he stormed over to his side of the fire, propped his head up on his pack and feigned sleep until he heard the insufferable woman he was forced to travel with fall into slumber on the other side of their camp.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks so much for the lovely reviews! Again, I don't own anything except OCs and original storylines. Here's chapter 3 of 'Saving Boromir', enjoy! **

Morning claimed the sky once more; the dawn of Boromir and Amela's second day together stretched laboriously across the land, casting a yellow glow on the two companions as they both stirred and – eventually – awoke. Amela knew instinctively that the fire had long since faded into nothing, but nonetheless, she was surprised at how cold she felt when consciousness claimed her that morning. As Boromir also became fully awake, he noticed her shivering a little as she packed her things; he also noticed that his belongings had not been touched.

"You told me not to. I listened." She grumbled at him with a turned back.

"That makes a change for the better," he countered. Then he sighed, and his tone softened, "Lady Amela..."

"What is it?"

"I'm sorry, for approaching you last night as I did. I don't know what came over m-"

"Save me your excuses. The truth of the matter is that you're so used to women falling at your feet, that you thought a poor traveller girl would be easy pickings."

"No!" Panicking, Boromir desperately tried to explain his self. "That's not it at all! I just..."

This is it; he was going to have to admit what had been going through his head when they had left the forest.

"Well? What is your explanation?"

"When we were stood together, looking out at Rohan – before we began to cross these lands – it was the first time..." He left a long pause, gathering his thoughts, and courage.

"The first time for what, Captain?" Amela, now intrigued, felt her anger ease slightly as curiosity got the better of her.

"It was the first time I had seen you, properly: in the light... the memory came back to me when I saw you last night in the firelight. My emotions overcame me."

Thoroughly embarrassed, Boromir failed to look Amela in the eyes while he braced himself for what was to come. But no anger came from her; instead she smiled. And, shaking Boromir's shoulder with a warm comradery, turned to him with laughter painted across her muddied face.

"Oh, captain, it seems I cannot stay mad at you after you so completely humiliate yourself; your actions are heartily excused." She smiled, now that he had turned to face her, "you ought to pack your things, the dawn is quickly turning to day."

Thus they again walked the wilds of Rohan. Although, contrary to the silence they had maintained while walking so far, on this day they talked and laughed as friends as they travelled. Considering how smoothly the conversation had been flowing to that point, Boromir decided that he must ask a certain question of the woman he knew so barely:

"Lady Amela, if I am wrong forgive me, but I have noticed something." Boromir rubbed the back of his head as he spoke, unsure of how to word what he wished to say.

"Well done, son of Gondor. Would you care to share your discovery?" Sarcastically, she smiled at him again.

"Well, it seems you will soon run out of ways to address me besides my name." He had been nervous about asking her this, but the more he thought about it, the more it made him... angry.

"Yes, why is it that you insist on avoiding my name at all costs? Why not simply say 'Boromir' when you call me? Why do you find it so damn difficult, woman?!"

Rather taken aback by Boromir's sudden change of tone, Amela felt nothing less than insulted by the way he was now, quite literally, yelling at her.

"Because, Captain," she pointedly addressed him, "I don't quite like you well enough yet, and at this rate it's not exactly hard to see why, is it?" She started to walk away from him,

"Where in Middle Earth are you going now?" Shouting after her, Boromir was thinking about following, before she replied that is...

"To seek my own company, son of Gondor, as I am finding yours impossible to bear!"

She carried on marching away from Boromir – Southward – for a short while; when she felt she was adequately far from him, she slowed her pace slightly. Hearing the sound of running water nearby, she deduced she had wandered onto the route that Boromir had specifically chosen not to take; this pleased her, a little: knowing how blatantly she was going against him, by walking near the mouths of the Entwash.

"Why is it that I should follow his route anyway?" She scoffed, "he has no authority here; he has no hold of me." She shook her head.

"I can make it to Minas Tirith without his aid." Glancing at her leg, which was healing nicely, she knew that she would not have made it much farther than the woods where she had met Boromir, if it were not for his offering her aid, food, warmth...

"Companionship..."

As much as she wished it weren't so, she knew that she owed her life to Boromir. Despite endlessly reasoning with herself that she had repaid her debt in the battle by the Anduin when she saved him in return, she still felt that she owed him something else: something much more valuable than life...

At this point, the plains of Rohan mysteriously became far more beautiful to her; they sang to her. They sang of freedom, opportunity, adventure and new experiences; these were the reasons Amela had chosen to travel; she needed excitement.

Her daydream was all of a sudden broken by a gruff horn sounding somewhere out of sight.

"Orcs!" She breathed to herself, uncharacteristically afraid. She was alone, injured, out in the open; she didn't stand a chance against an entire orc pack.

There was nothing she could do.

Although resigned to her fate, Amela drew her sword. Brandishing her loyal blade strongly in the bracing wind, she prepared herself for the onslaught; prepared herself for death.

Boromir, too, had heard the Orc horn ringing through the bracing air.

"Amela!" He breathed through panicked gasps. Turning on the spot, he desperately tried to pin point which direction she'd stormed off in,

"If only she'd listen! If only she'd simply follow orders! If only she..." Then he had it, he knew where to run, so he ran. Carrying him faster than he'd moved in all his years, Boromir's feet drove him forward with a newfound need to save the woman that irritated him so.

"Where is she? Where is she?!" He asked himself as he scanned the land around him. Then he saw her, standing in the midday sun, with sword aloft and head held high. Admiring her more genuinely than he yet had, Boromir drove himself forward with even more momentum...

"Amela!"

She heard heavy feet running towards her; she tightened her grip of the sword's hilt. She heard the deep breathing of an adrenalin fuelled fighter; she raised her blade. She heard the voice of... of Boromir? Then, before she even knew if it really was him, he grabbed her free arm and dragged her – at a full sprint – straight into the nearest river mouth. By this time, she had managed to clumsily sheathe her sword, which meant that – once they were in the sizable stream – Boromir was able to wrap his strong arms around her to pull her to the side, under the overhanging bank, hiding them from the swiftly advancing orc pack and their formidable warg allies.

"Shh..." Holding her tightly, he could feel her heart beat pulsating through her, against his chest. Fast and uncomfortable at first, her breathing steadied soon after they had stopped running. Now, they just had to keep quiet, and hope the water would disguise their scent.

Crumbling slightly as the charging orc pack made its way towards their hiding place, the frail river bank above their heads was all that protected them from the rough blades of their enemy. After seemingly a lifetime, the first warg paw landed heftily above their heads; dirt fell onto their damp faces under the beast's weight and they heard it sniffing intently. Orcs were murmuring at eachother in their awful language; although neither of the terrified humans understood it, it was clear they were completely dumbfounded as to where their prey had escaped to.

They must have eventually agreed on something, because after much hoarse roaring and even the occasional fight, the pack mounted their wargs and made off in the direction of Wetwang. Boromir and Amela waited there, in the shallow waters under the sheltering bank – his arms still wrapped in a protective hold around her – until it was certain that the pack would no longer be within a threatening distance. Shifting his weight, Boromir started to raise himself out of the river.

"Wait," Amela muttered, pulling him back down, so they were both kneeling, facing each other in the water, "why did you do that? You could have been killed, just for a small chance of saving me."

"I..." The words caught in Boromir's throat, he couldn't say it. "I just didn't want your blood on my hands, that's all." He lied, as he climbed out of the river.

Although he longed to tell her why he had really risked his life for her, he couldn't, for he truly had no idea of the reason. It was inexplicable, he had heard the orc horn, and – where he would normally have looked for the closest hiding spot – he ran in open ground, driven by some new urge to ensure her safety before his own. He'd never felt this before. He didn't understand.

As Amela too emerged from under the bank, she saw Boromir standing a few feet away from it: seemingly staring after the orc pack that they had just so narrowly escaped.

"Do you think they were looking for us?" Amela pondered as she joined Boromir, ringing out what water she could from her shirt without removing it.

"No." Boromir turned his head toward her. "I'd say... hunting..."

"Well they've gone now..."

"Yes," he agreed, "they've gone... for now." His arms moved as if to embrace her. He wanted to so badly, and it burned him inside that he couldn't hold her; shield her from the cruel will of the world. But, he didn't know what to say, and he didn't know what to do.

"Boromir... what are you doing?" Leaning slightly away from his now open arms, she looked at him with eyes full of mockery and confusion. Boromir suddenly realised that his arms had moved (apparently of their own accord) and attempted to wrap themselves around his beautiful companion.

"Err..." he stammered, panic slapping him as he dragged himself back to the present, "...stretching?"

He moved his arms up above his head and feigned a yawn.

Sceptically, Amela let Boromir's weak excuse stand, "I see... Well, we still have a good few hours of daylight left, what do you say we make the most of them?"

"I say 'for Gondor!'" He cheered, clapping her on the shoulder as he would a brother in arms. "What is left of our rations?"

Nodding reluctantly towards where she had stood, waiting for her demise, she directed Boromir's attention to the crumbled remains of what was their food supply. Deeply trodden into the tracks and droppings of the wargs, the food was beyond salvaging.

"What about the food in your pack?" Amela asked hopefully.

"There's nothing. I dropped it before I came to find you; I couldn't risk the pack picking up on its scent and finding y-" he quickly corrected himself: "us."

Both of them were getting very worried by this point, the planes of Rohan were not known for their abundance of wildlife, or even fruits! They'd have trouble surviving for long, even with their hunting skills. Together, they talked through their very limited options and came to the conclusion that the only logical course of action was to attempt to last through the remaining days of their journey without provisions; try to survive on the meagre pickings to be found in the wilds of Rohan. Having decided on this – decidedly risky – plan, Boromir and Amela set off. Amela noticed that Boromir had started to lead them as if to cross the river mouths, and wondered why he was going against his own plan.

"Weren't you adamant about avoiding the mouths?"

"Yes." He said, plainly, "but going around them again would add at least another day's walking to our journey." He paused, and then began to laugh. "And look at us! We're soaked already; a little more paddling couldn't hurt."

Amela, too, chuckled at the apparent irony of avoiding the watery route to Minas Tirith, after their latest ordeal.

"I suppose you're right, son of Gondor." She grinned. "This is going to be a long journey, tiring too; it's best we don't delay more than necessary... Captain?"

Amela turned to see Boromir – again – looking eastwards, and feared the worst.

"What is it? Are they coming back?" Rushing back towards him, she urged an answer from Boromir, "Well?"

"No, we're safe."

"Well, why have you stopped?"

"Just look, woman."

So she did, she followed Boromir's gaze until she found what he was looking at:

"A horse!" She exclaimed.

"Yes. A horse with no rider... in Rohan..."

The two of them made their way (carefully) towards the unexplained wild horse. Upon approaching it, however, they discovered that it was – in fact – saddled; not wild at all. The horse was standing solemnly, nuzzling at something on the ground.

"There's a rider!" Amela whispered. This complicated the situation; what if the horseman was an enemy?

"You have good eyes, can you see his armour?" Boromir had noticed Amela's eagle eye, and now put his trust in it.

"Maybe, if I got a little closer..." She made to creep up to the rider, but Boromir held her back.

"Be careful" was all he said before releasing his hold, for he knew by now that she was more than capable of taking care of herself.

Minutes – that seemed like hours to the Captain of the White Tower – passed, and Amela returned, totally unscathed, as expected.

"Well?"

"Rohan armour, so he's safe. He has a few supplies too... but... he's badly injured... he needs help."

"We can't; our priority is reaching Minas Tirith, not helping injured soldiers."

"So what would you have us do? Leave an innocent man out here to die?! We can take him to Edoras! It's closer to here than Minas Tirith, and he has a horse to carry him, his supplies and maybe even some of our gear. We can stock up in Ednoras, Captain, and then take Great West Road all the way to Minas Tirith."

Boromir could see no fault in her plan, besides the delay. Damn that woman: always a step ahead.

"I understand your concern, Captain: the delay will be long. But, I can't leave him here, and neither can you."

"You're right, again." Boromir sulked. "We'll help him."


	4. Chapter 4

It's chapter 4! :D Sorry the chapters tend to take so long; I don't really have a lot of writing time due to school, plus I proof read and edit about 5 times to make sure there aren't any mistakes. Ha! As always, I own nothing besides OCs and original storylines; enjoy!

* * *

Upon seeing the soldier the two travellers rescued, the gatekeepers judged that Boromir and Amela weren't threats to the city or its people and let them into Edoras. They passed through quietly, heading straight for the barracks.

"Who are you?" A sceptical guard approached them, hand on hilt.

"I am Boromir, son o-"

"And I am Amela," she interrupted abruptly; bragging about Gondorian status probably wasn't the best idea when looking for help in Rohan, "we're travellers."

"Very well, what is your business here?" The soldier asked, gesturing the barracks behind him.

"Well, we found... this..." Amela led the horse to the side, revealing the Rohirric soldier astride it.

Boromir clarified, "we found him alone, almost dead."

"Oh dear Lord, quick, get him inside!" Boromir and the guard carried the soldier to the infirmary, while Amela led his horse the stables.

Leading the steed into a free stall in the stable block, Amela's keen eyes caught a glint of sunlight on metal: a name plate on the horse's saddle.

"Fleetfoot... Your rider must be pretty important, boy, for you to get a fancy name tag like that." Playfully, Amela rubbed his matted hair and giggled as she buried her face in the horse's warm neck; it was comforting. Reciprocating Amela's hug, Fleetfoot muzzled the small of her back before resting his head over her shoulder and sighing contently.

"You know, boy, I've always liked horses," she yawned as she began to remove Fleetfoot's saddle and bridle.

"I think our captain of Gondor does too, he just doesn't like to show it." Boromir hadn't shown Fleetfoot as much affection as Amela had; at one point she had caught the son of Gondor rough housing with the steed, but he had quickly collected himself and returned to his usual, composed exterior once he saw that he had been discovered.

Meanwhile, Boromir was in the barracks; the Rohirric soldiers were extremely curious as to why a Gondorian captain and a fair traveller maiden were crossing Rohan, and together at that.

"Alas, gentlemen, our business is not only our own, and I cannot share it with you." Boromir evaded another of the guards' queries, "excuse me, sirs, but I must seek out my companion."

Nudging one of their comrades forward, the Rohirric soldiers sniggered and winked at eachother in anticipation, and then the nominated speaker said what they were all waiting for.

"About your 'companion', Lord Boromir..." the soldiers practically leaned forward with excitement, "how is she?" Every guard present roared with laughter, they pushed each other and shouted crude comments across the room; Boromir tried not to hear them, but his ears still caught a few:

"I bet he gets her every night!"

"She's a nomad; I hear they're the wild ones!"

"Ha! Could I get a turn?"

Unwillingly listening to their foul mouths, Boromir felt a pit of rage open up inside him. In two wide strides, he had the offending guard pinned against the wooden wall of his own tower, struggling for freedom.

"Are you mad, man? Let me down!"

"No. Scum like you don't deserve freedom; she is an honourable woman and I will not have you talk that way of her." He maintained his grip on the unwitting soldier's throat. "Do you understand me?"

The Rohirric soldier gasped for air, before spluttering out a "yes" between sharp breaths. Boromir released his hold.

"Good." Throwing his cloak back over his shoulders, he made for the door. "Goodbye... 'gentlemen'."

Firmly shutting the heavy door behind him, Boromir felt it best not to seek out Amela; his mood was too foul. Instead, he stormed towards the King's hall to negotiate beds for the two of them for the night. Little did he know, Amela had seen him walking away from the barracks when she left the stables after giving Fleetfoot a quick groom. Delicately jogging to catch him up, Amela reached Boromir just as he began to climb the stone steps leading up to the Golden Hall.

"You know, it's a good thing I have the gift of foresight. Otherwise, I would've had absolutely no idea that you'd even left the barracks." Amela taunted.

"Save me your sarcasm, woman; I am in no mood to tolerate it."

Boromir had been in somewhat high spirits – considering how opposed he was to coming to Edoras – up until they separated at the barracks, so his new found grouchiness seemed unreasonable to Amela. Then again, she'd learnt by now when to not push Boromir, and now seemed like one of those times. As they scaled the final few steps, a more ornately armoured soldier approach them, with four additional guards behind him.

"I cannot allow you to approach King Théoden so armed. Please, hand over your weapons."

Protective over her weaponry, Amela hesitated to surrender them to the Rohirric captain. She felt a reassuring hand on her shoulder: a Gondorian hand.

"You'll get them back, trust me." Stern and sincere, his face was once she had faith in, so she unbuckled her scabbard and took off her bow and quiver.

"Be careful with them." She warned the young guard that took her weapons; he nodded nervously.

Addressing the leader of the group of guards, Boromir showed his authoritative nature,

"Now, may we see the King of Rohan?"

"Of course, sir, right this way."

"Thank you."

After being escorted into the Golden Hall, Amela allowed Boromir to lead the way across the it, to stand before Théoden. The King seemed old and drained, like his very life force was being sapped from him; his grey white hair was dry and his eyes were glazed and unfocused. As he – with difficulty – shifted his weight in his throne, all could see the lack of life in his sagging, pale skin and hear it in his laboured breathing. At his side, a pasty, sickly looking man with greasy, black hair sleeked back from his pointed face whispered in the King's ear. All the while, the same repulsive man eyed the two travellers maliciously. After a long silence, the King spoke.

"What brings your here, travellers?"

"We have come a long way, King Théoden," Boromir began. "We found one of your soldiers on the road; bringing him home to Edoras took us days out of our way. We come before you to ask for shelter in your halls, to allow us to rest before we continue our journey."

The oily haired man again spoke in hushed tones to the King, who in turn threw a gruff laugh at the two young travellers standing in his hall, seeking nothing but a bed and shelter from the wind...

"You will find no shelter here, Gondorian."

"But my Lord!" Amela objected, before being swiftly cut down by the King's harsh – if wheezing – speech.

"And take your nomad with you; I have no patience for mongrels."

At this, Amela almost lunged at the decrepit old King; she wished she had kept a dagger on her person. It was only Boromir's sturdy grip on her upper arm that stopped her, for he had seen the anger begin to burn in her and knew he ought to restrain her; she wasn't exactly averse to rash actions.

"Very well." Boromir conceded; there was no winning this. "Thank you for your time, King Théoden."

As they made their way back down the stone steps (Boromir with his head held high, a sign of his nobility, and Amela walking begrudgingly beside him) a woman called after the pair.

"Wait!" They turned. "I'm sorry; my uncle is not his self as of late: a sickness has fallen on him..." The woman's words trailed off as she spoke of this, but she soon continued.

"I cannot convince him to let you stay in his hall, but you needn't go cold and hungry tonight. The people of Rohan are still good souls; perhaps you could find a bed in one of the houses in the city? I could help, I spend more time with the people than most of the nobles here."

"And you are?" Boromir – while hopeful and ready to trust the kind noblewoman – still felt it necessary to be sure of whom they were speaking with.

"My name is Éowyn, and the King is my uncle."

"I have heard your name," said Boromir with a nod, "and we gratefully accept your assistance."

And so it was that Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain of the White Tower, came to be spending the night not in the Golden Hall – as intended – but in the surprisingly roomy home of a farmer and his family, on the very edge of the city. The farmer in question (a middle aged man, whose hair was just beginning to show signs of greying, and hung at the sides of his work worn face and below in a short tangled beard) was more than happy to take in – who he saw as – friends of Lady Éowyn's. Although, he seemed like the kind of fellow who would offer a stranger comfort anyway, even if they hadn't asked for it; he had a kind face. Bidding Lady Éowyn good evening when she left to return to her uncle's hall, Amela and Boromir soon found themselves sat at the table with the farmer (whose name was Farendor) his wife Hélva and their two children, a boy called Thren and his younger sister Yúla. Despite their humble status, the family easily put on a decent meal for themselves and their guests: a hearty broth was accompanied by filling and tasty fresh bread, with vegetables and meat from the farm too. Everyone gorged themselves on the wonderful spread, for the family had been working the farm all day and this was the first good meal Amela and Boromir had had in almost a week.

After the meal, Boromir sat by the fire with Farendor and Hélva, discussing all manner of things: from farming, to life in Gondor, to the journey he and his companion had made to Rohan (obviously, he left out anything that might link him to the fellowship; that was not for strangers' ears) while Amela played swordfights with the children, fascinating them with stories of orcs, eagles, goblins and dragons – some of which were even true!

But the night wore on and the newfound friends grew weary, and with the children almost falling asleep by the fire (toy swords in hand), all decided it was about time to retire. Thren and Yúla were put to bed by their parents, who then bid the two travellers goodnight after showing them their beds: two small, neighbouring, single rooms, each with a bed, a window and a small table occupied by a wash basin and a jug of fresh water from the well outside. They each bid eachother goodnight before going into their separate bedchambers; they tried to hide it, but they were both a little put off by the separation, after spending the past few nights being able to see the other.

Amela undressed herself and changed into the nightdress Hélva had lent her: it was clean (which made a pleasant change) and full of the warmth of a family home.

"Such a kind woman..." Amela thought to herself as she lay awake on the bed, looking up at the wooden ceiling.

Meanwhile, Boromir too had undressed. Farendor had lent him a pair of woollen briefs to sleep in and he pulled them on, thankful for the change of clothes and the warmth of the garment. However, he did not immediately relax on his bed as Amela had, for something had been playing on his mind since they left the Golden Hall:

"'Mongrel' he called her... what could he have meant?"


	5. Chapter 5

Dust fluttered in the pale light of the Rohirric morning that flowed through the small window in Amela's room; her eyelashes flickered slightly as it woke her. Letting out a tired chuckle, she realised how funny she would look to anybody seeing her contorting her body as she stretched. Then she sighed, placed her head back on the pillow and relished not having to pack a bag or take down a makeshift campsite in the morning, for once. It was early (very early) and she didn't plan on hauling herself out from the warm blankets before dawn was much older.

When she heard the first sounds of the city coming to life, Amela judged she'd laid in bed for long enough: she swung her legs out from the blankets and wiggled her toes as her feet became accustomed to the cold of the floorboards beneath them. Once stood up, she stretched again before heading over to the small table, on which she had put her clothes and armour the night before, only to find them gone! In its place, there now sat a folded dress of faded blue and turquoise; Hélva must have taken her own clothes for cleaning.

"Such a kind woman" Amela said quietly to herself, "I must remember to thank her."

Despite her apprehension towards wearing something so feminine, Amela changed out of her nightdress and into the blue frock, only to be pleasantly surprised. Despite its appearance, the dress was amply comfortable and allowed her to move almost completely unhindered: true farm girls' garb. What's more, it was actually rather pretty, the light blue skirt and full length sleeves were accompanied by a discreet turquoise trim and a fitted bodice of the same shade. It was very much unlike anything Amela would ever choose to wear, but she found it comfortable and sufficiently practical.

Once dressed, Amela saught out Hélva, to thank her for the change of clothes and offer any help she could. The farmer's wife was not hard to find; she sat at the large table in the centre of the house, mending one of her husband's recently split boots, before heading back out to the fields.

"Ah, Amela, did you sleep well?" Hélva looked up from her work and asked cheerfully.

Amela was suddenly aware of how late the morning was: she'd been wrong when she assumed she had time to lay awake in bed that morning.

"Yes, exceedingly well, but the day seems older than I thought, how long was I sleeping for?"

"Oh a good 11 hours, and you look the better for it dear."

"I meant to thank you for the dress; it's nice to feel the touch of clean cloth again." The two women giggled, both knowing the feel of mud soaked garb. "Is there anything I can do for you? I'm sure I could be of assistance somehow."

Hélva smiled at Amela again, warmly, then with a more playful tone...

"Actually, we could use a fresh bucket of water in here, if you'd like to start with that."

"Of course," Amela said with a nod, reaching for the bucket standing on the table next to where she stood, "I'll be back soon."

"Oh take your time dear, and... have fun." Hélva seemed to almost giggle at her last remark; Amela wondered what she could mean.

She soon found out.

As she rounded the corner of the house to reach the well, she found Boromir. He was stood at the well, having just drawn up a pale of water for himself: cold, clean, fresh, and splashed over his bare torso. Amela froze. She stood there, unable to stop watching him as he scooped the water up in his strong hands and threw it over his face and chest. She saw each individual droplet fall from the ends of his hair and role down his toned body. He turned and shot her an appreciative half smile, causing her to drop the bucket she'd thus far been gripping as tightly as a climber grips his ropes, and she ran from Boromir to the sound of the vessel clattering on the stony ground.

As soon as she reached the house, she closed the door behind her with a thud and fell back against it, breathless and astounded. Hélva was still sat at the table, laughing at the cunning of her plan.

"You knew!" Gasped Amela, grinning in disbelief at her friend. "You knew he was out there, like... like that."

"Well," Hélva chuckled, "it's not a sight I'd wish any woman to miss out on."

Without warning, a pang of jealously shot through Amela, and apparently it showed on her face.

"He's a handsome man, Amela." Hélva pointed out.

"He's more than that," Amela interjected without thinking, "he's valiant and brave: you should see him in battle, Hélva." She reminisced as she moved to the window, watching Boromir again. "He may seem vain at times, but that's not it, it's that he's so proud of his heritage; his country. You cannot fault him for that..."

Having moved to her new friend's side, Hélva laid a hand on her shoulder as she spoke, "he's eligible too, he won't wait forever..."

Amela soon became flustered. "Wait? What do you mean? I don't... What?"

Sighing at Amela's ignorance, Hélva saw she would simply have to come out and say it.

"He loves you, girl!"

"Love? No, I-"

"I've seen the way he looks at you, Amela, his eyes are full of adoration, worship even. He lights up when you come into the room, even though you irritate him so. You might not see it yet, but there's love in him, and if you don't accept it soon..."

"What? Hélva, what are you saying?"

"You might lose him."

Neither of them spoke for a short period of time, both simply watching Boromir and thinking, until - eventually - Amela spoke.

"I care not."

"Then you are a fool." Replied Hélva in full sincerity. "The stubbornness of your youth blinds you to your true feelings. One day you will see it, and you will want for nothing more."

"I am not some simple maiden waiting to be swept off her feet. I take care of myself; I always have."

"Oh really? And how many times has your lord Boromir saved your life on your travels?"

Amela paused awkwardly "... a few. But I have also saved his!"

"Exactly, Amela. You are saving Boromir, and he will yet save you."

The day passed uneventfully: Boromir spending much of it looking for Amela; Amela avoiding him; both of them helping to work the farm. As the sun began to sink low in the sky, the family and their guests once again sat in the warm glow of the hearth to enjoy a stout meal and good conversation. However, the comfort of the evening was somewhat diminished by Amela's reluctance to talk or even really look at Boromir.

So, as the two of them walked to their adjacent rooms that night, Boromir took his chance as Amela headed for her door.

"Goodni-"

"Wait."

The word came from Boromir in a deep rumble as he leant, with his hand against the wall near Amela's head, causing her to back up against the same wall, looking up at him. Knowing that this must have been intimidating for Amela, it pained him to hold her here in this way, but it had to be done to stop her avoiding his questions... He didn't know how to begin.

"You, you look... nice. The dress, I mean, it... it suits you."

"Oh... is that all?" She looked at him with a confused expression; she hadn't seen the captain this flustered before.

"No."

"Well would you care to tell me the rest?"

"What have I done?" The question gave Amela no more clarity as to the situation, so Boromir continued, "you haven't spoken to me - hardly looked at me - since this morning, Amela. Tell me, what have I done?"

Amela looked to the floor, uncharacteristically shy. "Nothing, Captain, you've done nothing at all."

Then she started to make for her room again, leaving Boromir stood as he was. Just as Amela was about to disappear behind her door, she turned around to see Boromir now leaning his head against his arm.

"Captain." He turned. "Do you have any more questions? About anything?"

He knew what she meant.

"Yes. When we first came here, to Edoras; when we spoke to the King... he called you a..."

"A mongrel. He called me a mongrel."

Boromir winced at hearing it from Amela's mouth.

"Yes, he did... but why?" Boromir moved his gaze to Amela's ears: protruding gently from her hair.

Amela gestured for Boromir to follow her into her room.

"Close the door." Was all she said before sitting on the edge of her bed, again looking toward the floor. Boromir - reluctantly - complied, for being with a woman, in her room, behind a closed door, was not strictly acceptable... not that he minded it much. Taking a seat on the small, wooden chair across the room from Amela (but still within a few feet of her) he started to listen.

"You've seen my ears, Captain, and you know that I am not an elf." Amela began. "Nor am I of the race of men... not truly, at least not anymore. I was young, a girl just barely out of her mother's arms... a group of easterlings - barbarians - swept through my family's farm. They, they destroyed... everything: every house, barn, stable, all our crops. All I remember is the noise... the sounds of destruction and pain, through the fire and dust and smoke. Nobody made it out alive. My friends, my... my parents: they're dead. Only I survived, because my parents hid me, I hid, behind a rocky outcrop just outside the slaughter. I didn't come out for hours after they'd gone, for I was so afraid. Not afraid of the eaterlings, but of facing what I had lost. I was afraid of the truth, afraid of being alone."

Amela then left a lengthy pause, before continuing her tale.

"As for my 'mongrel' status, that is a simpler tale. You see, my father was half elf, but he gave up his immortality for my mother; for their happiness. I always knew I was different, but I never felt excluded. That is, I never felt excluded until I turned to the elves for help. They fed me, they clothed me, then they sent me away. They did not accept me. I wasn't one of them, despite my heritage, I wasn't good enough. I saw it on their faces; felt it in their gaze: I wasn't good enough."

Boromir now saw the truth. "So that's why you acted how you did with Legolas... and why you're..."

"Why I'm so distant? After I lost my parents and I was turned away when I sought help from the elves, I vowed never again to depend on others. I help myself, I have since the elves turned me away..." She sighed. "Well, there you have it, the story of the mongrel girl who cannot trust."

Tears had stained Amela's face by the time she looked up to meet Boromir's gaze. He left his seat to kneel on the wooden floor in front of his troubled companion. Even on his knees, he was still just above her eye level, with her sat on the bed. Resting one hand on hers - which laid on the bed beside her - he cradled her cheek in the other and wiped a tear from her fair face.

"Trust she can learn..." He whispered to her softly, before leaning in a little more and looking straight into her eyes; letting her see his soul.

"But can she love?"

She gave into the light pull of his fingers on her jaw line and joined him in lessening the gap between them, before Boromir closed it completely. His lips met hers shyly. One hand still cupping her jaw, the other - which had been resting on hers - coming up to cradle the other side of her tear stained face.

Trembling at her sides, her slim fingers moved tentatively to rest on Boromir's strong shoulders, as his kiss caressed her lips in a silence full of yearning.

The moment was brief, for Boromir soon pulled himself away from Amela with a look of great effort on his handsome face. Lingering on her skin a little while longer, his hands seemed so reluctant to relinquished what they had waited so long for: her. Boromir took a sharp intake on breath that caught in his throat,

"I am sorry..." he breathed as he moved for the door.

"No." Barely whispering, Amela was surprised that her captain even heard her, "stay."

So he stayed, though not for his self; he couldn't leave after all that they had shared that evening. Sitting with her until she fell into slumber in his arms, he held her, safe from all that had hurt her in the past. When her breathing was slow and rhythmic, he lowered her sleeping form into her bed and laid the blankets over her, before returning to his seat, and staying there until dawn.

As the first hints of sunlight started to seep into the otherwise dark room the sound of pounding hooves stirred the captain of Gondor from his shallow sleep. Glancing out of Amela's window, he was suddenly awash with disbelief.

"A dwarf, an elf, and a man. They are here." He hardly believed his own words, even said aloud. "No, two men?" Who was this white robed rider that now travelled with his former companions? There was only one way to find out...


	6. Chapter 6

As he approached the king's hall, Boromir overheard a heated discussion between familiar voices; he quickened his pace and entered hastily.

"Boromir?" Aragorn hadn't expected to see former companion here, "what are you doing here? You were heading for Minas Tirith."

Nodding, Boromir told the tale of how he and Amela had crossed Rohan, escaped a roaming orc pack by hiding in a river, and eventually how their finding of a Rohirric soldier and his horse had brought them here, to Edoras.

"The rider is being cared for in the barracks as we speak." Boromir concluded.

"It is fortunate that the two of you found him when you did, by the sounds of it," Aragorn observed, "Speaking of your companion... where is she?"

"She is sleeping, but you needn't worry, she would not leave Edoras without my knowing."

"You trust her?" Legolas interjected, once again showing his opinion of Amela.

"Yes, I do."

Little did they know that the woman they spoke of was not so far away, after all. Amela knew it was rude, but she couldn't resist listening through the slightly ajar door.

"He trusts me..." She whispered to herself, before again turning her pointed ear to the door; she heard Boromir's voice, and it was full of worry.

"Where is Frodo? Where is the ring?"

"Calm down, Captain of Men," Gimli's gruff voice attempted to soothe Boromir, but it failed.

"No. Where are Frodo and Sam? You have left them!" The harmony of anger and paternal worry in Boromir's voice was something Amela had never before heard from him.

"You are wrong, Boromir." Aragorn stated plainly.

"How so?"

"Frodo and Sam left us; we could no longer protect them, as long as Frodo remained a ring bearer."

Gasping, Amela suddenly realised just what she had gotten into. Panic flooded her entire being, pushing her through the great door of the Golden Hall.

"A ring of power?" She gasped as she gracefully slid through the door into the Golden Hall. Echoing through the empty room, her light steps caused all of the men to turn their heads. Aragorn's reassuring of King Théoden (now released from Saruman's hold) meant that Amela was able to reach the far end of the hall, armed, before she was even addressed, and Aragorn was the first to.

"Lady Amela, how nice to see that you're well."

"My leg is better, yes. But I fear there may be something else: something that doesn't bode so well for me." Behind the mask of courtesy, there was clearly worry in her voice; fear, even. She looked into Boromir's eyes for reassurance, but found that he too looked shaken.

Catching in her throat, Amela's voice came out weak and shaky when it eventually broke the heavy silence.

"How could you hide this from me?"

"I-" But Boromir had no words, at least none that would keep Amela in the hall.

As she left, Boromir watched her walk away, a tearing look of loss scarring his noble face. Théoden knew this look, for it was the one he had worn when he learned of the death of his son, just minutes ago.

"You are excused, Lord Boromir; the company of a mourning royal will do you no good." The King understood, as always.

"Thank you, King Théoden, I am sorry for the loss of Théodred; he was truly a prince worthy of the title. Good evening, friends." He paid a short bow to his fellows before swiftly departing.

Swirling in the rohirric wind, Boromir's dark hazel hair obscured his view of Edoras as he stood atop the stone steps of Meduseld. Where was she? Just as Boromir had descended the first flight of stone stairs, he heard a woman's voice from behind him.

"You knew." She'd been stood behind him the whole time. She leant against the wall of Meduseld: arms crossed, head down, eyes shut.

" You knew the danger that followed us, and you kept it from me. And to think I trusted you."

"Amela, it's not-" He made to climb back up to her, but - yet again - her words stopped him in his tracks.

"I could have _died_, Captain!"

He froze; Amela took a few strong steps forward.

"Your deceit could have sent me to my doom, all for some damned ring! Don't you understand that?"

"Yes. Yes, I understand that! But I gave my word to keep the quest a secret, for the good of Middle Earth."

"But..." With a sigh, Amela's stance dropped as she gazed down at Boromir. "But what about me? Did you care?"

But before the Gondorian captain could answer her, they were both silenced by what then emerged from the doors of The Golden Hall.

Soldiers carrying a weighty load led the procession outside the walls of Edoras; there the mourners gathered: nobility and peasantry brought together in grief; a weeping procession clad in black standing glumly among grassy mounds covered in white blooms. A woman's voice rang through the chilling air, tortured and sad. Both Boromir and Amela bowed their heads as they approached the burial, in time to see the body disappear into the cold grave before the mound was sealed once again. Amongst the sobs and the grievances, Amela heard the name "Théodred" uttered with heavy, proud hearts.

"Who was he? I hear them saying 'Théodred'." Amela turned to Boromir with empathetic eyes, as if she knew the pain these people were feeling.

"He was a great warrior, a beloved prince, the King's son." Boromir awkwardly rested his hand on Amela's shoulder to comfort her and – to his surprise – she didn't shrug it off; she turned her whole body to him. Stepping into his embrace, she started to sob softly into his broad chest. Boromir would have questioned this; it was so very unlike the strong, independent Amela he had come to care for. But, given her having recently shared so much of her own pain with him, he could understand that she would also seek comfort from him, rather than strangers.

As the funeral procession started returning to the city, Amela regained her usual composure. Quickly stepping back from Boromir and wiping her eyes, she steadied her breath and began to follow the others back to the city, gesturing for Boromir to follow.

Marching in silence back into the city, the grief of the funeral (along with the residual tension from their earlier quarrel) hung on the two of them thickly and heavily; neither of them said anything, even when they parted ways. Boromir made his way back to the Golden Hall to speak further with Aragorn and the others, while Amela headed towards Farendor and Hélva's farmhouse.

Since the family were out tending to their crops and animals, it was easy for Amela to slip into the house and make her way to her room unnoticed. Luckily, she found that her own clothes had already been returned by Hélva.

She would miss her new friend - living such a nomadic life, she rarely had the opportunity to build close relationships - but Amela could not stay here.

"I am too vulnerable."

And so she left a brief note of thanks to Farendor and his family (along with a small trinket, in thanks) gathered her weapons and pack, which she intended to refill on her way out of the city, and left.

Meanwhile, in Meduseld, Boromir was once again reunited with his comrades.

"It seems the two of you have grown very close since we first separated by the Anduin." Aragorn had heard the conflict between Boromir and Amela, and had seen the comfort his fellow Gondorian gave her in spite of it at the funeral.

Somewhat embarrassed, Boromir found himself lacking his usual way with words.

"You could say that, yes, maybe."

"I suppose she just batted her eyelids, eh boy?" Laughed Gimli. In response, Legolas simply muttered under his breath:

"I don't doubt it."

"I do not deny that she is fair, but that is not why we have bonded as we have." Boromir had his voice back.

"Her skills are remarkable; her swordsmanship is excellent and she rivals even Legolas with a bow."

The Captain ignored the sarcastic elvish grunt with which that last remark was met, but did not carry on.

"You seem quite attached to this woman, Boromir, have you given much thought to what you'll do when your journey is over?" Aragorn was - as always - the voice of reason.

"You plan for my own future more than I do myself, Aragorn. We've travelled together for so long now, I hadn't thought of it ending."

"I recommend that you do."

Boromir nodded, he knew what Aragorn really meant.

"I will speak to her. I believe she returned to the farm after Théodred's burial".

"Good luck, friend." Were Aragorn's parting words.

To Boromir, the walk from the Golden Hall to Farendor's farm was endless. Although, he still had no idea of what he would say to Amela when he reached her. Fortunately for him, that wasn't a problem. To his dismay, upon stepping nervously into the woman's room, a slip of paper wrapped in a silver chain caught his eye. After gathering the farmer and his wife, he handed the letter to Hélva (to whom it was addressed) and she read out the words Amela had crafted just hours ago.

_"Dearest Hélva,_

_ Let me begin with an apology, it seems hardly fair for me to leave like a thief in the night after you have shown me so much kindness, but it must be this way. I am sorry, Hélva; I hope that one day we will meet again._

_ You of all people deserve an explanation for my sudden departure. This is it: I cannot stay here any longer, for I feel strangely vulnerable as of late and it deeply unsettles me. My dear friend, I fear that you are right about my Captain, but that only drives me away more swiftly. I cannot be responsible for his happiness._

_ In place of the help I promised you as payment for my staying with your family, I have left you my mother's necklace: it should fetch enough money to repay the cost of taking me in. I will miss it dearly, but knowing it has been put to good use is enough to ease the loss._

_ Thank Farendor on my behalf, will you Hélva?_

_ There is one more thing I must ask of you, my friend, tell the Captain that all is forgiven and that I was selfish to expect so much from him. He will understand._

_ Goodbye Hélva, I will miss you._

_ Love and thanks, from your friend_

_ Amela._

The script was beautiful, but the words it bore stung like a Morgul-blade. Feverishly scanning the room, Boromir searched in desperation for any clue as to where Amela might be.

"By the inkwell." He breathed, "there is ink on the desk, and it has not yet dried."

"She can't have gotten far." Hélva observed as she joined Boromir in inspecting the ink droplets, "What are you going to do?"

"Find her. " He decided. "Find her and tell her everything."

"Then take these" Hélva insisted as she thrust the necklace and the letter into Boromir's hands, "and tell her that if she wishes to repay her debt, she must visit again."

With a smile - and a generous pack of provisions - from Hélva and the rest of the family, Boromir set out from the farmhouse. But at the gates of the city, he was intercepted by none other than its King.

"You shan't catch her on foot, my lad." He said knowingly. "The soldier the two of you saved gave her his horse in thanks for his life, and a mighty steed it is, too. Follow me, Boromir of Gondor, if you want any hope of seeing the girl again."

Boromir walked with the King until they came to the stables: all the stalls were occupied save for one (marked "Fleetfoot"). Regally striding past many a fine steed, Théoden led on until they came nearly to the far end of the barn.

"Here, his name is Beleger; he will serve you well."

"The name is elvish..." But Boromir did not know the graceful tongue.

"Yes, he is "mighty one" and it is a just title" the King cooed as he brought the already saddled horse out for Boromir. "Now go! And good luck."


	7. Chapter 7

Hello! Apologies guys, I've sort of been on a semi-hiatus during exams, but now that I've finished with those, I'll have loads more time for writing. I've also got two really good story ideas lined up that I'm very excited about, which I'll probably be getting started on after Saving Boromir is finished. Oh, and heads up, I've changed my pen name to something a tad more "my-real-name-ish", anyway, here's chapter 7, enjoy!

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Thundering beneath her, the rhythmic hammering of Fleetfoot's hooves on the rain softened ground beat in Amela's ears like a drum, while the salty sting of tears streamed horizontally, back from her eyes and into her hair, alongside cold, heavy raindrops. The speed of her mount - coupled with the howling winds all around her - flung her hair and Fleetfoot's mane in all directions. Despite her ears and face being red with cold and wet, still the deluge poured down on her and the loyal steed; still it soaked them to their bones and still the wind snapped at and whipped them.

All of a sudden, Fleetfoot let out a piercing neigh, for Amela had pulled him up in an abrupt panic; they had come to a great cliff. Jagged and dark it was, and covered in long brittle grass, that protruded and hung limply from the precipice.

"My boy," Amela soothed as she dismounted, "it seems we have come as far as we can by this path."

Upon scanning around them, Amela spotted a small patch of sparse woodland; she led Fleetfoot under the canopy and tied him loosely to a fallen trunk before searching for ferns with which to build a makeshift shelter. Fortunately, the thinness of the canopy under which they were standing had allowed for a thick layer of shrubs and ferns to grow close to the ground; Amela was able to find a sufficient number of large leaves to cover both herself and Fleetfoot, who was more than happy to let Amela lay against his side when the two of them eventually turned in for the night.

As the night drew in, Boromir too took shelter from the rain; without sunlight he was forced to halt his search until morning.

"It is folly; I cannot track by the moon's light. I am no ranger."

Resigned to his inability to continue his hunt through the night, Boromir searched for a suitable place to rest. As it happens, despite his arguable lack of skill, luck was on Boromir's side that evening, for he chanced upon a large boulder: indeed large enough to shelter both him and Beleger, if a little snugly. From under the overhanging reach of the rock, Boromir watched the rain batter the ground around him into mud. Building a sort of makeshift pillow with his hands, he laid down his head and looked out into the dark. As his breath began to form steamy clouds in front of his face, he let his eyes close and willed his body to rest, against the will of his whirring brain.

When the night drew back, so did the rain; sunlight was twinkling on dew drops that sat clumsily on the rohirric grass, when the son of Gondor roused from a fitful sleep. With great haste he gathered his pack and again mounted Beleger, who had wandered a few feet to graze on the newly moist greenery.

"Curse that unholy rain!" The captain hissed, for the preceding night's weather had washed away any trace of a trail left by the ever careful Amela.

"It is hopeless. Even Aragorn could not find a trail now; the ground is all but flooded." Still though, the noble captain searched in vain: first from upon Beleger's back, then on his own feet. After a short while, the poor man was crawling like a dog, on all fours in the mud, scrambling desperately to see a trail through tearful eyes.

But it was not the ground that would yield the answers that Boromir sought; it was in the sky that his salvation was to be found.

Far to the north, yet not so distant as the shadows now cast by Isengard, a thin wisp of white grey smoke could be seen rising from a bushel of sparse trees. Almost identical in colour to the pale clouds above it, the smoke would have been invisible, if not for the contrast between it and the branches from which it came.

"Designed to hide from far away foes, what a clever camper you are." Although tears were still brimming his eyes, the words Boromir spoke came through a smile. "Little more than a day's ride. We should find her only a little after nightfall," he turned to Beleger, "be swift, my friend." Then, mounting the steed in a leap and a swing, he dug his heels into the horse's sides and rode hard toward the thin column of smoke.

Even as he rode, he could see his target growing fainter; Beleger could feel the urgency in his rider's seat, so he ran with all the haste he could muster. But despite their flying speed, morning all too soon turned to day around the pair; the sun sunk, behind the clouds, and began to drop below the horizon before Boromir even noticed that midday had passed. The sun had dropped low by the time they reached the cluster of forest from which the smoke rose; by the waning apricot light they scrambled through bushes and shrubs: searching. The evening drew on. Almost all of the sun's light had left the sky when Boromir finally stumbled upon Amela's camp. In reality, it hardly deserved the name; he could easily have passed it half a dozen times - and he most likely did. As ever, Amela had made a point of leaving as little trace as possible of her having made a camp at all.

"She is gone then..." Boromir admitted to himself, with a distinct crack in his voice, then a sort of physical pain started to manifest in the Gondorian's limbs, as he sat on one of the crumbling logs nearby.

"We will never catch her, Beleger; her skills are so far superior to mine in the wild." His head fell to his hands. "Some part of me knew that she would not be here, for the emptiness I felt - somewhere near my heart - did not subside as we neared this place. As long as she runs, I will never find her."

But Amela was not running, and neither was Fleetfoot; he had run hard the day before, and they both were weary; thus they had been more than willing to opt for a slower pace on their second day of travel. It was quiet, and the muffled thud of Fleetfoot's hooves, as solemn as his rider's mood, on the spongy earth sounded for long hours before the pair halted.

And that is when they heard it: both mounts; both riders.

A disorganised pounding of thousands of iron clad feet marching over open lands. Amela quickly scaled a nearby large boulder, and Boromir rode Beleger to the peak of one of the many steep hills this close to the Misty Mountains. They could see small lights, as if from crude torches, amid a vast dark cloud travelling swiftly across the lands of Rohan. It was coming from the Northwest...

"From Isengard." Both riders uttered the name of that place with an unfamiliar, sinister weight.

While they themselves were still divided, from that moment their purpose was united: from the direction in which the orcs were headed, it was clear that Edoras was not their target.

"They are marching on Helm's Deep. Come, Beleger, we must arrive ahead of them!" He set the horse off at a slow canter; they needed to move quickly, but they had also not to stop until they reached the keep. As a Rohirric war horse, Beleger was more than up to the task.

Amela, too, had read the signs and knew where her next destination was, but as she was significantly farther from the fortress (and her horse much more rested than Boromir's) the urged Fleetfoot on at a stronger canter, in order to reach Helm's Deep in time.

It took little more than a day's ride for Boromir to reach the rocky walls of Helm's Deep (Amela arrived soon after, not that he knew). Both Fleetfoot and Beleger were held with the other horses, and their riders stationed at where they were deemed the most useful: Boromir with the warriors; Amela with the Rohirric archers.

Within hours, tens of thousands of Isengard uruk-hai were upon the keep, a shrill, evil horn pierced the air, and hence the battle of Helm's Deep began, and it was chaotic, and it was bloody. From the walls, archers released hundreds of arrows, which rained like a deathly downpour on the orc legions, piercing their crude armour and vile flesh. Alongside those of the men of Rohan and the elves of Lothlórien, Amela's arrows flew amongst the fray, slaying many an uruk. One even pierced the eye of a particularly sizeable orc, sending him stumbling backwards and off the edge of the ramp he was ascending, taking ten of his comrades with him.

"Pendraith!" Aragorn shouted to the elves around him. Above the noise of clashing steel and flying arrows, Amela heard the cry.

"Ladders!" She yelled to the men of Rohan with whom she fought. Although shocked to see a woman in battle, they took her warning gratefully. As farmers and tradesmen, their skill was not in war, but the orcs had come for a fight, and a fight they gave them. The men of Rohan slew their enemies as bravely and with as much fervour as the legendary warriors of old.

Soon after, there came a deafening boom from another area of the fortress: giant chucks of blood stained rock were flung down onto both sides of the fight. Being closer to the blast than most, Boromir was almost thrown back by it (and he would have been, if not for his strong stance). Raising his sword, the great gondorian charged into the wave of rampaging orcs with fire in his eyes and in his heart.

"For Gondor! For Rohan!" He yelled. Hearing his cry, the other warriors felt their hearts lifted. Alongside Boromir and Gimli, they fought back the uruk-hai with some success. Some... but little. Boromir was proving to be a hazard to the uruk hai forces, and so had been identified as a key target. From the top of a fallen piece of rock, an orc captain released a dark arrow. The wicked thing pierced Boromir's chest, then another shot threw his shoulder. He staggered.

Meanwhile, up on the walls, the fight was raging even harder. Perched on a battlement, Legolas sent out arrow after lethal arrow, each killing an uruk and sending at least three more falling to the hard ground below. Focussed solely on his targets, the elf left his immediate surroundings unchecked, at his own risk. As he loosed yet another winning shot, he heard a rough cackle behind him; he turned to see an uruk scimitar bearing down on his stunned face. Dodging would have been futile, if it weren't for the good nature of another fighter, who leapt between the blade and Legolas, disarming its wielder with a dramatic clash. With a second swing of their sword, the offending orc lost its head by the hand of Legolas' saviour.

"Thank you, frie-" But the face he addressed is not one he would normally choose to name as such. "Amela..." he paused, confused, "but you... thank you."

"Lle creoso." Was all the woman said before turning back to the fight. Just as well, for a huge orc was charging down the wall, killing as he went. Swift as a spring swallow, Amela slid along the floor - between the orc's legs - and slashed both his knees as she passed through. After finishing him off with an arrow to the brain, Legolas, begrudgingly, admitted that he was impressed with her performance.

As Amela got back onto her feet, Théoden's voice could be heard above the battle's noise.

"Aragorn! Fall back to the keep! Get your men out of there!"

And then Aragorn's.

"Nan barad"! Yelled Aragorn to the elvish troops.

Both orders held meaning to Amela, so after running a few more orcs threw with her sword, she started to head back to the stronghold of Helm's Deep. All running for the same place, the remaining fighters made quite the powerful wave. Large chunks of the walls had been lost, leaving the men running along the towering structures without barriers at times. To avoid falling to her death, Amela chose to leap over the gaps in her path when she could. But, the stone was wet with rain and thick orc blood; rushing past, a soldier knocked her as she jumped. Her hand took a hard hit on the way down, breaking her left wrist. Clinging to the keep's walls by the tips of her fingers, she could hear the roars of Isengard's army below her. It seemed impossible to cling to such a slippery surface, and it proved so, for she fell.

But she did not fall far; a familiar, strong hand had saved her, and now began to pull her up as she tried to scale the wet rock. With a strong flick of her hair, she looked up at him: Boromir. But his injuries and the effort of running to the keep with arrows embedded in his torso had sapped his strength; he held a tight grip on Amela's wrist, but he was struggling to keep himself from slipping further toward the edge of the wall. His struggle was clear to Amela.

"Let me go! You'll fall!" She cried to him.

"No! I let you go before; the pain of the fall would be nothing compared to what I would feel if I let that happen again."

The captain could not hold his place for long, and he soon lost it altogether: he began to slide quickly toward the edge... toward death.


End file.
